American Tragedy
by HoneySweetSins
Summary: A compilation of short-stories to express the darker side of America, not suitable for youngsters. A little bit of AmericaxEveryone in the coming future. Pleasant reading!
1. Been To Hell

A damning grin was all that was needed to know that he was planning something destructive.

Deceit and corruption glittered on his kissed red lips like blood whilst his hooded eyes promised whatever you needed, offered your greatest temptation, and ensnared your soul before you even realized you had sold it away. His beauty made you writhe with desire, and though you were blinded to his lies, you loved what you saw. Bright blond hair and thrilling blue eyes led you down, down, down to the beat of the bass and the heat of a body pressed against your own, exciting you, deluding you, including you.

America the beautiful.

America the tragedy.

His hands are warm and his grip is tight, you can't see his eyes behind the light of your own pleasure, your own joy and pure _rapture. _He rocks into you and you lose yourself, your grip on him fails and you fall back into the silken sheets, gasping, moaning, laden with lust. Your hands twist the fabric beneath you as your heart hammers in your chest, because finally, _finally, _he's right above you and there is no tip-toeing around him anymore, no denying the flames of want. He is right there! You want him badly, want him immeasurably, want him so harshly it hurts. Wound up tight and about to burst, you surge upwards to meet your hips with his in a blessed collision.

He brings out the worst in you and twists it, uses it, and you don't notice until it's far, far, too late.

His teeth are sharp against your neck, animalistic in his intensity and the low, throaty voice he speaks to you with. You hear not a word he says, understand not a bit of the danger you're in, even as a bit of you is screaming, screaming, screaming. Terrified and exhilarated and so caught up in the moment, you fail to take the chance to escape.

And then you're snared.  
In his bed you are alone, in his arms you are weak, in his eyes-

You are his prey.

He is the predator.

You are his game. His toy. His plaything. A friend on the side. He's tired of friends like you. He's tired of playing nice. He was a victim of deceit once upon a time, but he stood through it and took it better than you ever could have. He didn't do what he could've done, he kept his head through the agony, and now while you stand alone, he watches grinning so happily.

You're like a child beneath him, you know only what you want. His hands are like ecstasy, and you wonder just how he got to be so skilled in such ways. The thoughts a little bit sobering, you cringe to think of him with another. Your gaze drawn to his, you wonder how this is happening, how he's filled you with heat and you just laid there so passively.

This isn't the boy that you know, this is a man who knows who he is. And that isn't America, the cultural melting pot of complexes. America doesn't know how to pleasure someone like this, doesn't know how to fuck someone so engagingly. He can't. Impossible.

That's what you want to think.

Realization is imminent, but so is your agony, and both are held back by the climatic symphony of your cries into his lips, and your gasps and your groans because the way he's moving is damning. It's euphoria, bliss, and you melt in the exultation of climax. His own elation is drowned out by your voice- if he made a noise- and you wrap yourself around him as you fall from your high.

You feel yourself relaxing for once, spent and well satisfied, but there's movement above you and you look up in question. His skin is hardly damp with sweat, you envision that it must have been no challenge to screw you senseless like he has, and his blue eyes are darker than you can ever recall seeing them. Is this what satisfaction looks like on his face? You suddenly comprehend that, no, you've never seen him happy, not in over 200 years, at least. Not honestly.

But then he rolls away, leaving you confused.

"Where are you going?", you ask.

He turns to you once he's stood, pulling his boxers up, followed by his jeans. He watches you in thought as he does so, and you wonder what he's planning to say. His long sleeve button-up is thrown over his shoulder as he fishes out a packet of cigarettes from his pants, deftly pulling one out with a flick of his wrist. He's silent as he lights it and takes a drag.

"Leaving?", He drawls after he breathes out the smoke, ending the confused quiet with a tiny remark that sends you sputtering in outrage.

"What do you mean 'leaving', you git?", you sit up, the soiled sheets pooling down at your waist as your stomach curls with unease. Suddenly you're afraid.

His stare burns you venomously, accusing you of something you feel you should have known about long before this. His gaze is both enraged and pitying. You finally understand what you never understood before, to America, you're expendable. Unexpectedly, you realize that this is how he must have felt, that maybe this is part of the reason he was so eager to leave so long ago. He felt used.

Now you do too.

America's eyes seem to darken even more, fading into an eerie black that you also remember from the past; he used to have so many people with dark eyes and red skin. That you and a few other nations slaughtered them and taught his people to hate them fills you with guilt, because now you know better. That was murder, murder of his natives, something that in no way would have been tolerated in their modern world.

"A-America...".

He smirks, but you see something savage in his expression that terrifies you into silence.

"I'm leaving... But I'll be back, and I expect you to be waiting", he says, and his tone of voice is something you've never heard in a nation. He reaches forward to cup your cheek in a way you would have adored under other circumstances.

"Welcome to my World".


	2. Mother Murder

He jolts up from the bed, trembling in something akin to terror but with a closer likeness to insanity. In a single moment he's up and standing, sleep completely forgotten as he catches sight of himself in the mirror across the room. The blankets are stained and dripping with blood that he can't identify, and instead of tripping over them as he leaps away from the bed, he tears right through them. His fist sinks into the mirror, through it, and into the dry-wall behind it. The shards embed themselves into his skin and trails of blood run along his arm and drip down onto the floor, hidden by the darkness that consumes the room like a palpable smog.

He rapidly draws his arm out of the wall and covers his frantic eyes, stumbling back until his knees hit the bed and he sits. Warm blood, soft, sensual to his broken mind, terrifying to his heart, trickles onto his thighs and spreads over his face as he pulls at his hair and the glass gouges his angular face.

"What kind of America am I?", he shouts, screaming a question that the whole world knew the answer to.

From behind him the bed lurches, the old wood of the bed creaking in lieu of springs. The mattress is the best that can be bought, even stained with blood. Cold hands stroke his sides, up and down, nails scraping throbbing red streaks across his ribs. He arches back into the abusive hands, and an icy chest meets his back.

"You are very silly tonight, da?".

The hands pick at the glass, not pulling but pushing, not slicing but twisting, until the rivulets of blood are long and thick, and the scent of blood wafts around the room. The nimble but still so very cold fingers are coated in blood, with which they use to draw a solid red X over his heart. The beating of his heart entices the other, and one red tainted hand rises up to pet at his cheek and his mouth, stroking gently at lips scarred over from harsh teeth and bitter punches. He licks at the fingers, not entirely sure if the blood is his own or not, so lost is he, until the blood is gone and the fingers cover his mouth and pinch his nostrils shut.

A momentary sense of panic overcomes him, but fades away as brilliant eyes of violet fall into his sight. He can see the pretense of love and kindness, and the anger and hatred and desire behind it.

His heart drums in his chest and the eyes are drawn to the X, and soon he feels teeth biting at his skin, nipping and kissing and ripping into him.

He tries to interact with the other, but his mind is numb and his body aches as his vision flickers to and from darkness. But as a nation he won't die, and therefore he doesn't care. He wants to trace the lines of muscle above him, and he doesn't question when he moved onto his back, just knows that it happened.

His heart is hammering by now, and in a very detached way he realizes this, but he's too consumed with almost-there thoughts and heavy-but-light regret to acknowledge it. He remembers when this thing that they had wasn't about hurting each other, and they had a friendship and something like love, but it's very hard to think about now. He's long since lost his voice to change their routine, their familiar display, their everyday, ordinary exchange.

His frozen lover has known this all along, he thinks. Known forever that this would happen.

The mattress must be irreparably stained by now, he's sure. The ice-like hands have been removed from his face, and now hold something worth less than the blood on his own hands. He raises them up and holds them close to his eyes as his chest burns and his heart is far, far away.

His arms drop onto the bed and remain there, and he just watches. Watches as his heart is slowly pried from his chest, still beating, and held in fingers that dig into it cruelly and without mercy.

He wonders how much his heart is worth to the other, and wonders why those violet eyes bother with the effort of tearing it out when they know that they already own it in a way that no one else has or ever will.

He had never meant to turn out so wrong, he had reigned in as much of the evil within himself as he could and directed it in other ways. But he also knows that he's not the only wrong one, he isn't the only one at blame... Though he can own up for so much of it.

Those cold hands are touching him again, stroking the edges of the gaping whole in an almost tender way, easily mistaken for actual caring. In the beginning they had both been kind, where it had changed? Neither knew. But one day they found themselves plotting and deceiving, and he had never meant for things to turn out like this. He had never wanted to be this shattered, fragile, unpredictable, insane.

He had nothing left to give anymore, and only felt himself slowly bleeding out with the passage of time. Much like how the blood fled his body now, actually. The violet eyes are watching him again, and the cold fingers link with his and pull his hands up until his elbows rest comfortably on his stomach and his palms face upwards. Something warm is placed into them.

"You will crush it one day, da?"

He somehow doesn't have the strength to nod, but the other seems content with his silence. They fell into a silence, and a stillness, and both could almost forget their shared madness in the peace of it. Their thoughts wander, and he happens to wonder if the new toy of the other has realized the game yet. Probably not, with how deceptive that cold is.

He curls his fingers in, slowly, until they've covered part of his heart. As much as he hates it, he also loves it, because his heart is his people. He will always love his people. Lately though, they haven't loved him, even as they forget to realize that they are what makes him.

His heart is plucked from his palms and bounced in those cold hands, jerking his thoughts back to the bedroom and the blood and the seductive agony. He questions the other with his eyes, and soon his question is answered as a freezing cheek nuzzles his palms and pushes them down, and then those violet eyes are calm again, and the hate is less potent. His heart is returned, bloody and chilled. His blood is colder now, and he knows that he's slowly freezing to death. It may take years, perhaps a century, but it will happen.

And if he must freeze... Then the other must burn.

There was blood on both of their hands, after all.


End file.
